Rolling along

Clay and I shared a penchant for rollerblading that began in Paris of all places. It was our first attempt at a city break with a young family, and our children were maybe five, seven and ten. As our family of five meandered slowly along the pavements on foot, occasionally skirting a congregation of café tables, I suddenly noticed the smooth and seamless surface underfoot. Aha! My kind of city, Paris, and not for its usual charms.  What a brilliant surface for wheels, I thought.

We ducked into Decathlon, bought five pairs of rollerblades and skated that city like a family of ducks. Alright, no….like Americans touring Paris. Clay was so little but still a competent skater, always trying to keep up with his sister and brother. With Frank and I holding a hand each, we’d lift him for the jump over the curb at the end of each pavement, then up and over the start of the next one, and off he’d skate. Until we arrived at Montmartre, where wheels were less useful. Roads and paths are made of cobbled stones. Plus, reaching The Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur itself requires a steep climb. Years later, I would visit Paris with Clay a second time, witness a mobile phone theft on those very steps, and engage in a high-speed foot chase all the way to Gare Du Nord.

Clay had a couple of skateboards and a pair of Heelys (shoe skates) in his time, but he reserved rollerblading for time with me. He and I would take rollerblades on our summer sailing holidays. Next to the marina in Split where we sailed from in Croatia, lay the entrance to a beautiful public park on the peninsula. Before and after our week’s sailing each year, Clay and I would cruise along the smooth cycling path under the cool shade of a Mediterranean pine forest. It went on for miles. At home, we’d take advantage of the (infrequent) re-paving of Surrey roads, skating around on a Saturday with Clay’s playlist loaded onto a Bluetooth speaker in a backpack. He was sensitive to the volume, wanting it loud but always wary of drawing attention. If Clay was a thrill seeker, I think the trait can be traced.

Once, we drove to a covered car park in Farnborough on a Saturday morning, parked nearby and climbed the steps to roof level—all for the pleasure of a downhill free skate lasting maybe a few minutes. I formed a loose plan to return there recently after seeing a film called ‘Minding the Gap’ about three skateboarders on the brink of adulthood in Rockford, Illinois.  The opening  scene was familiar and caught me by surprise: three man-boys clenching skateboards charged past “No Trespassing” signs and climbed the fire escape of a new multi-story car park to access the vast swathes of descending concrete.  On each young face flying down the ramps was the unmistakable look of pure joy.

I couldn’t see the look on my own wide-eyed, tear-stained face as my heart took in that achingly reminiscent scene on the screen. I was watching a mother and son, breezily gliding along with the teensiest glint of naughtiness in their eyes. The look on their faces could be mistaken for joy, but it was not.  It was the frivolity available only to those with a free and easy faith in an unending supply of these moments together.